Le Chéile
by StarKatt427
Summary: On their way back to Ireland after executing Yakavetta, the MacManus brothers must face Rocco's death one final time before letting go.


**Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Boondock Saints, nor its sequel, as Troy Duffy is the rightful creator. I wouldn't mind owning the MacManus brothers though.**

**A/N: Happy Valentine's Day everybody, and even though it's a day for lovers, I'm bringing y'all some more brother bonding with BDS! I absolutely cannot get enough of these two, and this little idea came to me as I was lying in bed, trying to go to sleep so I wouldn't be a complete grouch at school. This one was a little harder to write, to find a flow for, so I ended up constructing it in bits and pieces that, thankfully, all fit together, and I actually love the way it turned out. I think this is the fluffiest I've ever gotten with the boys (I just can't see Connor, Murphy, and fluff all tied together), but I love their intimate brotherly moments, so this is what I ended up with. As for the fact that they're sleeping in the storage area of the ship, I thought they would have to sneak around more now that they're wanted "criminals"; as I was rereading this, I felt the need to clarify this point.  
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**Title in English means "together". Also, a quick note: I have a very strong feeling any BDS story I write will be rated MATURE for language and possibly suggestive themes (have _no_ idea how that's gonna work...)  
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**Feel free to review or rant or anything you'd like :)  
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*****_Re-updated as of 7/18/13_*****

**StarKatt427**

* * *

_The dream isn't a dream. It's a memory, one Connor relives more often than he would like, but it begins without his consent the way it always does. He's handcuffed, not for the first time in his life, manacles restraining his ankles as well as his wrists, locking him to the chair he was thrown into and biting at his resisting flesh as one of Yakavetta's bastards grips his neck, meaty hands pressed against his windpipe with enough force to momentarily choke off his breath. He jerks away, managing to free himself briefly before being subjected to another teeth jarring blow, adding more blood to what's already covering his face. His temples are pounding where he was hit with the butt of a pistol, blood running down his nose and jaws, filling his mouth, the taste metallic on his tongue, but he knows there's much more pain to come._

_To his right, Rocco's struggling against the men holding him, and Connor doesn't need to see Murphy to know his brother is kicking and rearing more than any of them. _

_A damn set up, and now they're in this basement with only God knows what fate awaiting them._

_Then the door's opening, and Yakavetta steps inside, a gun in one hand and a smile on his face as he watches his men beat the living shit out of them. He's focused on Rocco, and then Connor notices the men pinning him to his chair secure his hand, holding it so that his right pinky finger is extended. Yakavetta places the barrel of his gun to it. _

_Panic shoots up Connor's veins, rapid and fiery and mixing with the dread settled in his gut, because they all know what's coming. He yells at Rocco to look at him, but his friend doesn't, desperately trying to slip away even while knowing it's hopeless. Connor can see Murphy from behind him, bucking beneath the man holding him down, trying to get loose and stop what's about to happen._

_Then the bullet. It tears into Rocco's finger, completely demolishing it, and then there's a warm spattering of blood that does not belong to him hitting Connor's face, an endless scream of pain, Connor's own voice echoing after it as he tries to get Rocco under control, Murphy roaring and fighting like a madman._

_Time passes; maybe a minute, maybe not even that, Connor isn't sure. But then Yakavetta's back, gun pointed on Rocco, and Connor's screaming. __**No**__. No no no no, not this. Please, God, __**NO**__!_

_The shot rips through Rocco's chest and sends him flying backwards, and then Connor's shouting his name, begging him not to die, everything inside him throbbing as he watches his friend quickly slipping away in front of his eyes, knowing there's nothing he can do to stop it and hating himself because of his helplessness. His throat is raw from cursing and shouting, and he's crying, hot and salty tears that do not fall but fill his eyes and blur his vision, Rocco's last words reaching his ears._

"_**Don't ever stop."**_

_His eyes lose their focus, and he's gone, and Connor's screaming and crying, cursing Yakavetta and nearly consumed by the grief that's pressing on his heart, the ache that burns through his body._

_And Murphy. His twin, struggling so violently that he's knocked his chair to the floor, thrashing and cussing and snarling and fighting with tears, face buried in Rocco's neck. He feels the exact same pain, twin hearts breaking with the reality that their closest friend has just been murdered. _

_Rocco is dead._

* * *

Connor doesn't exactly jerk awake; instead, he's met with the blackness of his closed eyelids and the feel of his adrenaline-powered heart pumping blood through his body a little faster than normal, regaining awareness without any gasping for breath or sitting upright. Even with his eyes shut, he knows where he is, can feel the small cot beneath him and the coolness of the storage area, the metal of the ship surrounding him. It's quiet, save for the sounds of the ship as it drifts across the ocean, away from America.

He feels…calm.

Somehow, it's worse, and yet it's better. Better than the first several weeks when he would wake in the middle of the night, a shaking mess, memories so vivid and sounds echoing into his consciousness. But it's worse now, because if he's not waking in a panic—if he's calm—what does that mean?

Opening his eyes, Connor's met with the blue-blackness of the ship, just enough light for him to see his arms as he lifts them to press the heels of his hands into his eyes. Now more awake, he can hear other sounds: rats scuttling about, the boom of the waves against the ship, breathing coming from a few feet away: snores he now can recognize belonging to Noah MacManus. His and Murphy's father.

It's still a little odd, having his father as a constant in his life for the first time since before he can remember, and he looks to the cot set a little ways off from where his own is, unable to actually see the older man. It still catches him by surprise sometimes when the title _Da_ so easily rolls off his tongue; his mother never explicatively stated their father was dead, just that he might as well have been once he left, so to actually have a living, breathing father, one that smiles and laughs and is like any other human, is something that Connor has had to grow accustomed to. Three months might not be enough time to really get to know someone, to learn their nuisances and likes and passions, but it's been plenty of time for Connor to come to respect the man, admire him, care for him. It's different than he'd expected it would be; awkward at times, but never unwanted, and though he'd convinced himself years before that he would rip the man a new one if he ever did meet Noah MacManus, he isn't angry with him for not being there, just sad because of all the missed years. Any thought of ever hating him evaporated when he heard the family prayer recited for their deceased friend, when a hand cupped his jaw and cradled his cheek, when he saw the flitting smile so similar to Murphy's on the man's lips.

It took Murphy a little longer to completely warm up to him, to accept him, though it was obvious he was trying and even more so that he wanted to. But after the initial conversations, the weeks shared with him, his twin also came to care about the man, and now, it makes Connor smile to catch sight of them conversing with such familiarity. Murphy looks more like him than Connor does, one of the ways in which they are definitely fraternal, as he more closely resembles their mother; he sees it in a certain smile they both share, or the tightening of their jaws when they are displeased, or the way Noah's eyes crinkle when he laughs, similar to how Murphy's do when he's grinning or laughing at someone without really being mean, like how he often did with Rocco.

Connor feels the muscles in his cheeks work to lift his lips upward briefly. Their da would have liked Rocco.

The dream is back, along with that strange quietness he feels that he's not sure if he should, and it engulfs the nightmare, making its edges fuzzy, like it's slipping away. Connor doesn't understand it, and he doesn't like that he doesn't understand it, and the almost overwhelming need to see his brother hits him, fast and necessary, like it always does when his distress becomes too much. Talking to Murphy, seeing him, will help him make sense of everything.

Instead of turning over to him, though, he simply lies still.

He doesn't have to look to know that Murphy is gone.

Even though he cannot hear his steady breaths or sense his presence, Connor checks his brother's cot anyway; empty, like he knew it would be, the covers thrown back and sheets rumpled. He has a pretty good idea what this means, Murphy gone and him dreaming about Rocco.

Since Yakavetta killed their friend, they've both been plagued by the memory, waking from it late in the night and usually unable to find sleep again. And almost every time they've dreamed of Rocco's death, they have dreamed of it together. It's been just over three months, and though time is slowly helping, it seemed that the pain only grew worse during the first month, back when he and Murphy would wake at the same time and immediately search each other out to lock hands in a bone breaking hold; or, when it was more brutal, more real, one would slide from his bed and slip in beside the other, their combined body heat enough to make them sweat but the feel of their blessedly alive skin, of knowing that they were still alive and together, comforting. Sometimes, only one would be plagued by memories; Murphy would wake up, and Connor would as well, somehow pulled from his normally deep sleep as he sensed his twin shivering a few feet from him, and he would lift up and settle down next to his brother, silently smoothing his hair and sliding an arm around him, holding him close to stop the shakes as Murphy pressed his head into the juncture between his neck and shoulder for a few minutes. Other times, Connor would wake, see that his brother was still sleeping, and turn onto his side so that he was staring at the wall, unwilling to rouse him even as his chest began catching on strangled breaths, but then the mattress would dip and arms would lock firmly around his middle and a voice would say in his ear, rough with understanding, "Next time, fuckin' wake me."

Now, Connor sits up, sliding his legs out from beneath the thin blanket so that his bare feet are flat on the icy steel floor, staring at the space his brother should occupy. He cannot get rid of the restlessness, the wondering of how he can be so composed when he should be trying to collect himself after such a nightmare. But he's not hurting from it, not feeling that heaviness he's grown accustomed to after waking. He's sitting there, breathing in and out quietly, staring into nothing and trying to figure out why he feels the stillness he does now, wondering if Murphy's feeling it as well.

Standing, he quietly moves about, hoping not to disturb the older man as he slips on a shirt and slides into his boots, then begins to make his way up the stairway that leads to the ship's upper levels. The door makes a sound louder than he would like when it opens, loud enough to wake a light sleeper like his father, but he quickly pulls it shut behind him and sets out to find Murphy.

He's memorized the way to the ship's deck, and it doesn't take him long to make his way up into the fresh air. The moon's just bright enough to make the world that midnight blue color, but the stars are bright and numerous, beautiful overhead as Connor walks along the deck, trying to think of any other place his brother might have escaped to.

It doesn't take Connor long to find him.

Murphy's sitting on a long package crate, in jeans and naked from the waist up save for his pea coat, bare footed and a lit cigarette in one hand. His hair is bedraggled, Connor notes, sticking up in the front in a way that suggests he's been grabbing at it. His twin glances briefly at him as he approaches before looking back out into the night, inhaling long on the glowing cigarette.

Silent, Connor lifts himself up to sit beside Murphy, looking out over the dark water, moonlight barely reflected in its rippling surface. The air's warm on his skin but the sea breeze cool, and it's nice, that in-between. To him, Boston was either too hot or too cold, too loud, unlike Ireland, where he had grown up used to the mild weather, the rolling hills and quietness he often found. Still, he'll miss the dirty city that was his home for those few years, and he wonders if they'll ever be able to return.

They sit like that for a minute or two, comfortable in the silence they've perfected, the wind and the sea the only sounds between them before Murphy extends the cigarette to him. "You too, yeah?"

Connor doesn't look at him, not entirely surprised, and accepts the offered cigarette. He takes a long drag, holding the smoke in his lungs several seconds before blowing out slowly, waiting a little while before answering. "Aye."

Out of the corner of his eye, Murphy nods, then nods again, and lets out a breath. And it's such a simple action, yet Connor hears the way it stutters ever so slightly, feels just how cold Murphy's fingers are as he hands the cigarette back, sees his brother's teeth glide over his bottom lip. Maybe it's because he's had his entire life to learn his brother, twenty-seven years with the other half of his heart, but these actions say more than words ever could: Murphy feels it too, that uncertainty, that peacefulness he shouldn't feel.

It's only then that Connor realizes he's been openly watching him, and that, naturally, Murphy's doing the exact same thing to him. He wonders if his brother could see the way he'd just been clenching his jaw, or feel the quick, traitorous jerk his fingers gave as he passed back the cigarette. Did he hear the way the air seemed to stick in his throat a minute ago?

From the intensity he sees in the clear, pale blue eyes that meet his, without judgment and full of comprehension, he knows Murphy did.

For months now, they've both experienced vivid memories, blood and sweat and bile and pain, images that keep them remembering and reliving the grief. And though Connor does not regret cleansing the earth of just a small amount of its filth, he feels like it's their punishment: for getting Rocco killed, for murdering those men even though they deserved it. He's accepted this, though dreaming of Rocco's death always leaves him anguished and ashamed, and he has an idea that Murphy feels the same. But now, he cannot find any guilt in him; his heart isn't hurting, and he cannot find that devastating grief inside of him. There is nothing but a peaceful release, one that he knows he shares with Murphy, and as he looks into his brother's eyes and sees the understanding flood them, he feels it as well.

This isn't the beginning of something new; that started the day they executed Yakavetta in the courtroom. But it is another part of it: they, Connor realizes, just as Murphy must, are finally done grieving.

It's strange, because once Connor finally understands this, something inside him is set free, the sadness and guilt he's been holding onto all this time, and his chest and shoulders suddenly are lighter. Death is just part of life, and there's a time to mourn, Connor realizes, and a time to let go; but not forget. He'll never forget the foul mouthed Italian who they teased mercilessly, who had their backs on anything and who would spend hours drinking with them at McGinty's, laughing and hollering and just being free, who told them to never stop. He won't remember Rocco with blood and gashes marring his face, his voice strangled and a seeping hole in his chest: he'll remember him living.

A hand on his head, pressing him into a lean shoulder, and Connor is silent, a little startled by his brother's show of endearment. He's not sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't this, although he now realizes that it's probably what he came out here for and definitely what he needs. Fingers scratch at his scalp gently, comfortingly, and he closes his eyes, relaxing into his brother as something appreciative and warm swells in him.

"We're okay," Murphy says, certain, no room for doubt anywhere his voice.

Connor smiles, leaning into him a little. "Aye. We're okay."

Even though they had to leave the United States, they're okay. Even though they're still trying to get to know their father and even though the sadness of Rocco's death will never completely go away, they're okay. They're okay, whether hell or high water, because they are together.


End file.
